Leftovers
by CrimsonSuspense
Summary: Little scraps of fic I couldn't fit in anywhere else, but couldn't really bring myself to get rid of. Chapter 3 now up!
1. Chapter 1

Oh, god. I'm back. This'll probably be updated over the next few weeks or so. These are just a few odds and ends I can't fit in anywhere else, but don't want to get rid of. If it offends you so completely that you can't bear to see it here, then piss off and do something else. Nice reviews are gratefully appreciated, though not anticipated :P

Scara sat back in the chair, mouth slightly open. The dreamer watched her, as she struggled to find the right words. She blinked. And again. Meat giggled.

"Told you she'd hate it." Galileo elbowed her. "Shh, you. Scara? Can you talk?"

His guitarist blinked at him, and he sighed. "Scaramouche. Speak to me. What did you think?"

"I'm... trying to understand."

Khashoggi smirked. "What's to understand? Someone looked into the future-"

"Saw what a moody cow you are, and wrote about it." Meat finished for him, and he nudged her with his foot.

"Stop doing that. No, clearly you've been spied on, by Queen. Who were looking at you from the past."

"How the hell'd they do that?" Scara demanded, her ability to speak apparently repaired by the prospect of an argument with Khashoggi.

"Well, how did they bury their instruments in Wembley Stadium, and get Freddie into all that Lycra?" said Meat, reasonably. "Have a little perspective."

"They saw the downfall of their civilization as well," Galileo mused, and Khashoggi nodded. Scaramouche, however, was not convinced. "That doesn't matter."

Galileo glanced disbelievingly at his girlfriend. "Doesn't matter?"

"Yeah." Galileo looked around the room, and met several incredulous expressions which matched his own. "Gazza... what if they saw the van?"

Meat raised an eyebrow. "Van?" Scaramouche blushed. "Van."

"Ooh, classy."

"Look who's talking, you've had sex on a bin!"


	2. Chapter 2

_Hmm. Not really written with a pairing in mind, although there could be one if you squint a little._

Mornings had become a thing of beauty. In the long space of time before _her_, mornings had simply signalled the beginning of another day of endlessly dull work. The tedious wasting of yet another day before he could collapse into a bar stool and waste money he didn't really have on whiskey that made his throat burn and his eyes water.

Now, he couldn't quite believe what his life had transformed into. Waking to a clean room, rays of sun glinting invitingly through the curtains, and a warm body next to him. Conversations about everything and nothing over bacon sandwiches and coffee, the safe, comforting knowledge that everything would be just the same as he went home that evening.

Their own world, just as they liked it. Perfect.

* * *

The calm before the storm, that was how it felt. The sudden and pressing silence after a screaming row, the utter lack of anything else to be said or done. A calm yet relentless absence. Arguments were generally not intentional, although it often seemed they were; as if the only possible outcome of a passing comment or an arch look would be two people, on opposite sides of a room, breathless and flushed, fists curled and jaws set. Trying desperately for something, anything, but knowing there was, as always, nothing to be done.

And it ended, as it always did, with one leaving, running anywhere or nowhere, with a frantic desperation to clear his head; and the other sinking slowly down the wall to the floor, holding her hands over her mouth as she tried not to cry so loudly that people would hear.


	3. Chapter 3

The summer had passed too quickly. Whenever he tried to remember it, all he could recover was an absence of formality, the throaty giggle she had, the quirky way she dressed which consequently made him think twice, nowadays, about what he wore. And he remembered her kisses. That was the only proper memory of that summer – the first time she'd kissed him.

They had packed up some food, and she had insisted upon driving (he spent the journey wincing at every turn, and grimacing each time she'd made his car make an odd grinding noise) and recalled amusement as they arrived at the beach, along with a little relief that at least they weren't shopping.

They had spent the day lying back on a picnic blanket, looking up at the sky, and talking about anything. Their conversation had seemed trivial and fleeting, but now he wished he could remember every word spoken just in case it reminded him that tiny bit more, of her. Finally, as the sun was setting, they dragged a blanket out of the car, and huddled up underneath it. They watched the stars emerge into the vast expanse of indigo sky, and he had pointed out the pole star. Perhaps in retaliation, and not having any celestial knowledge to mind, she has kissed him.

All those months later, he wondered if, perhaps, the pole star had been outshone.


	4. Chapter 4

Scaramouche blinked at her boyfriend, an expression of shock on her sharp features.  
"Well, this is different." She managed, finally. His face, previously bright with hope, fell, and she immediately felt pangs of guilt.  
"Oh, Gazz - I didn't mean it like that." She bit her lip, and reached up to plant a kiss on his cheek, and smoothed a stray strand of naturally black hair off his forhead. "It's beautiful, honestly." She smoothed a strand of naturally black hair - hair she was jealous of, since it took her a monthly dye job to maintain her own dark hair - out of his eyes, where it had flopped as his head tilted forward, avoiding her gaze.  
"Gazz." She pushed his chin up, and sighed as he stubbornly refused to meet her gaze. "C'mon, it's stunning." The soft wonder in her voice made him look up, and he marvelled at the unshed tears in her eyes. Frowning, he brushed them away as soon as they hit her cheeks, and she gave a stilted laugh. "I'm just," she sniffed hard, her shoulders shuddering with the defiance to not cry. He didn't interrupt; only held her gently by the waist, and rested his forhead against hers. "I didn't expect you to want this. To want to do the whole..." The fight against tears had been fought and lost, and now her whole body shook with the tears she was too proud to let fall in front of anyone. Anyone but him. Knowing how utterly helpless she felt, he pulled her as tightly against him as he dared, kissing the soft hair on top of her head.  
"Hey, Scara." She looked up at him, face sticky with drying tears, and eyeliner and mascara smudged, panda-like against her alabaster complexion. Galileo smoothed his thumbs against her sharp cheekbones, and kissed the tip of her nose."We're gonna do this, okay? We," he lowered a hand with a grin, and curved it around the defined bump at her waist, "are going to be the best parents ever."  
She blinked up at him, dark eyes brimming with trust. "Ever?" He laughed.  
"Ever." She snuggled her head into his shoulder, and pressed a kiss into his neck.  
"Now then." He dislodged her gently, and gestured around the room to the pink walls, cot, and curtains."What do you think needs adding?"  
Scaramouche narrowed her eyes at him. "What if it's not a girl, captain genius?"  
He laughed. "You wanna bet?"  
"Unless you can secretly read ultrasound pictured? Yeah, go on then. Ten quid it's a boy."  
"Ten quid and cooking dinner for a month."  
"Done."

- Five months later -

Scaramouche looked down at the gently wailing bundle in her arms, and up at Galileo, who was watching with an ecstatic, if exhausted, smile; and a score of red scratch marks down his cheek. She winced.  
"God, I'm sorry." He grinned.  
"Don't be. Hey, what actually is it?" He walked up to the bed, sat on the edge, and gently tickled the infant's stomach. His hand paused at the blanket. "Can I look?"  
Scara scowled. "Go on, then. But just so you know, I reckon you cheated, and therefore the bet is void."  
He chuckled, and stroked his daughter's nose. "Get in the kitchen, woman." He then, quite sensibly, escaped, before Scara retaliated in a way that made both the birth, and Galileo's scratch marks, look utterly painless.


End file.
